


The observant, oblivious John watson

by Billie_Tyler (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Role Reversal, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Billie_Tyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a reversed AU of the BBC Sherlock series, John is all that Sherlock is now not.  Brooding, impossibly brilliant, and very observant when it comes to all things-save for Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Observationally Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

> As of now- I'm unsure as to whteher I should finish this! I have other chapters in my notebook, but idk. Anyways. Dumb shamelss plug @ http://isthisafantasea.tumblr.com/

Sherlock peered at John through the curls that blocked the upper half of his face, in awe of the genius of the man before him. For as long as he could remember, over the course of their short partnership ( _if you could call it that)_   John had been the smart one, the impressive one, the-Sherlock paused, his eyes skimming over John’s slim figure- the attractive one. His mind soon drifted into thoughts he doubted John was even capable of, much less reciprocating.  _Still_ , he thought to himself, _his coat does suit him...  
  
_     “-that glass shard, will you?” John’s voice broke into his inner monologue, bringing him back  to reality.  
    “Sorry, what?” he asked, not entirely sure what John needed him to do.  
     “Daydreaming again, Hmm?” For a split second, he smiled warmly as if chastising a child.  _God, that smile,_ Sherlock thought without even a conscious effort, it was merely a observation. 

Sherlock shook his head, embarrassed, and sent black curls flying every which way about his face. His cheeks would have turned an unflattering shade of red if all the blood in his body wasn't already flowing elsewhere. Seconds later, Sherlock‘s hair was back in place, as was John’s default, passive expression.

    “Hand me that glass shard,” John asked again, gesturing vaguely towards the broken shop window.  Donning a pair of durable rubber gloves, Sherlock knelt down, and blew a stray curl out of his face. Hundreds of glittering shards lay strewn about the body, providing a starry backdrop to the bloody that had already begun  to coagulate on the pavement. Sherlock looked up at John, puzzled.  
    “Ah...which one?” He asked, clueless. With a sigh, John sang a small tune.  
     _“One of these things just doesn't belong here!"_   He didn't wait for a reply, and turned again to answer a call from Lestrade. John slipped into the slightly annoyed tone he reserved especially for the inspector. 

Sherlock squinted, trying to find the odd shard out. His eyes skimmed over the scene when he noticed a glimmer that didn't seem to fit anywhere else. He leaned over the unfortunate victim, and did his best to keep the hair out of his eyes while he pried the only shard that had embedded itself in the dead man's skull.   
     
    “Tell your wife's lover I said ‘Hi’,” John snarled into the phone. He closed it angrily, severing the call without so much as a goodbye. Without missing a beat , a Tupperware container soon appeared by Sherlock’s ear and he deposited the piece without further instruction. To Sherlock's surprise, John was on his phone once again, and dialed yet another number. Sherlock could barely make out the tinny voice that had asked for their current address.  John answered promptly, without even so much as a glance up. A few brief words later, and the conversations was over, with John back to addressing Sherlock.  
    "I think we're done here." He said simply. Sherlock teemed with questions, but knew John well enough to ask just a select few.   
    "Just like that. One odd shard, and you've already got it." He said. Sherlock knew another equally important thing also, and it was that John was impossibly smug. John nodded, and answered just as expected,looking pleased at his own impressiveness.  
    "Elementary, my dear Holmes."


	2. John doesn't like Cabbies

    “What was that all about?” asked Sherlock as they climbed into the cab John had called. John said nothing in reply, but instead uttered one word, and it was directed at the man behind the wheel.   
     "Drive."  Jefferson Hope-who Sherlock had just gotten glimpse of his name-tag, put his hands up in the air.  
     "Ah don' wan' no trouble, yeah?" He stuttered out. "Ah carry very little mon' with me...please, jus' don' harm me."  
     "For heaven's sake...this isn't a robbery." John said, annoyed.   
     "It isn't?" Hope looked around, still cautious, and disbelieving at first.  
     "We've both come from a clearly marked crime scene, not to mention I just called you for a ride. _Why in the world_ would we be criminals?" He asked. Before Hope could answer, he slipped a piece of paper into his hand, and repeated his previous instruction. "Drive."  
     When Sherlock pressed John further, he said nothing in reply, and displayed signs of the sulky mood Lestrade often put him into. The setting sun had darkened the streets of London, leaving the interior of the cab very, very dim. John’s light blonde hair was the only thing left properly visible, in stark contrast with the black coat he could almost always be seen in when out of the flat. John's silence, and the almost rhythmic way the street lamps lit up the inside of the cab soon lulled Sherlock into a daydream. 

 

 

_Hands running through hair, gripping and tugging just so- enough to evoke a delicious yelp of his name. This Sherlock was a different being, one who did not blush, and who most certainly did not shy away. This Sherlock had no hair that stubbornly refused to to obey his command, instead staying perfectly in it’s place. This Sherlock was confident in what he did, and he did it very, very well._

 Sherlock was pulled abruptly out of a particularly enjoyable daydream as the cab’s brakes squealed loudly, skidding to a stop. Hope, meanwhile, profusely apologized.  
    “Ahm sorrah! Bloody ‘ell! Ah read thes dahrections wron’!” John promised the wrath of every branch of the British government coming down on the poor man’s head.      
    "And that’s if, _if_ , you’re not drawn and quartered first!” John hissed as a final remark, storming out of the cab. Sherlock paused, scrambling around in his coat and laid whatever change he’d had in his pocket at the time in the frightened driver's hand.  
    “Sorry...Sorry..” He mumbled quickly, following after John.

 _“Say it again,” Sherlock whispered into his ear._  
 _“Sorry....SORRY!” John panted,  and tried to the best his ability to sound like it. Sherlock gripped his hair tighter and pulled john to his tiptoes, while his other hand wound around his waist. He slipped the very tips of his fingers into the waistband of john’s trousers, touching the very edge of his red pants, while he kissed the skin of his neck._  
 _"Sorry for...?” Sherlock asked, mockingly innocent, while his hand slipped another inch, teasing.  
_ _“For...for....” John’s mind had drawn a complete blank. Sherlock’s hand retreated to where it had been, at the small of John’s back, rubbing small circles, far from where John wanted it to be.  He panicked, and racked his mind when it came to him. “Sorry for bein-”_

“-g rude to that cabbie, earlier,” he finished the sentence in reality, where it’d been all along. Sherlock nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, and he wasn't the one to whom John owed an apology.  
    “‘s okay,” Sherlock mumbled out. John could have been proposing they walk into the Vesuvius and Sherlock would have gladly followed.


End file.
